“That means that it was I who took it into my head to do it, does it? Do you think that we are made of iron? Why, if M. Schmucke had given seven or eight lessons every day and conducted the orchestra every evening at the theatre from six o’clock till half-past eleven at night, he would have died in ten days’ time. Poor man, he would give his life for you, and do you want to be the death of him? By the authors of my days, I have never seen a sick man to match you! Where are your senses? have you put them in pawn? We are all slaving our lives out for you; we do all for the best, and you are not satisfied! Do you want to drive us raging mad? I myself, to begin with, am tired out as it is——”
La Cibot rattled on at her ease; Pons was too angry to say a word. He writhed on his bed, painfully uttering inarticulate sounds; the blow was killing him. And at this point, as usual, the scolding turned suddenly to tenderness. The nurse dashed at her patient, grasped him by the head, made him lie down by main force, and dragged the blankets over him.
“How any one can get into such a state!” exclaimed she. “After all, it is your illness, dearie. That is what good M. Poulain says. See now, keep quiet and be good, my dear little sonny. Everybody that comes near you worships you, and the doctor himself comes to see you twice a day. What would he say if he found you in such a way? You put me out of all patience; you ought not to behave like this. If you have Ma’am Cibot to nurse you, you should treat her better. You shout and you talk!—you ought not to do it, you know that. Talking irritates you. And why do you fly into a passion? The wrong is all on your side; you are always bothering me. Look here, let us have it out! If M. Schmucke and I, who love you like our life, thought that we were doing right—well, my cherub, it was right, you may be sure.”
“Schmucke never could have told you to go to the theatre without speaking to me about it—”
“And must I wake him, poor dear, when he is sleeping like one of the blest, and call him in as a witness?”
“No, no!” cried Pons. “If my kind and loving Schmucke made the resolution, perhaps I am worse than I thought.” His eyes wandered round the room, dwelling on the beautiful things in it with a melancholy look painful to see.
“So I must say good-bye to my dear pictures, to all the things that have come to be like so many friends to me... and to my divine friend Schmucke?... Oh! can it be true?”
La Cibot, acting her heartless comedy, held her handkerchief to her eyes; and at that mute response the sufferer fell to dark musing—so sorely stricken was he by the double stab dealt to health and his interests by the loss of his post and the near prospect of death, that he had no strength left for anger. He lay, ghastly and wan, like a consumptive patient after a wrestling bout with the Destroyer.
“In M. Schmucke’s interests, you see, you would do well to send for M. Trognon; he is the notary of the quarter and a very good man,” said La Cibot, seeing that her victim was completely exhausted.
“You are always talking about this Trognon—”